Hitman: Pistol Smoke
by rockclimber6
Summary: Corruption in the Agency! Agent 47 might be the only one that can stop it. His life will be put on the line in this short story.
1. Preface: Pistol Smoke

She was startled, and woke up.

The woman, sitting up on her bed in her apartment on 12th street, was now wide awake. The room was completely black. The large, south facing windows provided no light for her in the middle of the night. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes to try to see through the darkness.

She sensed it first, sooner than she saw it. She quickly looked around. There, to her astonishment and overcoming fear, stood a dark, hooded figure standing in the adjacent corner of her apartment.

Was she surprised? No. In fact, she thought that this would have happened much sooner. Her antagonistic gaze remained on the dark figure as she sat still in her bed.

She looked on as her imminent death began walking, slowly. Closer to her.

No one in the apartment heard the scream as the silenced gun went off, and the room filled with the pistol smoke.


	2. Running

Agent 47 was running. This was not an unusual activity for him. 47 spent a lot of time running.

Not that Agent 47 is a coward. Quite the opposite, really. It is just so hard to be a top assassin without having the need to run every once in a while.

It was dark, as it usually was when Agent 47 ran. He found that night time was always the best time to hunt. He was an exceptionally graceful and quick runner, as he needed to be. However, he still stumbled and staggered through the thick, dark forest, trying to make his escape.

He had been too careless this time. He had gone into the outlaw's house thinking that this would be just another routine hit. Oh, it was quick and easy, yes. He simply snuck into the drug-lord's home, hid in the closet, and waited for him to be alone. However, Agent 47 wasn't expecting any company.

But there was. A lot of company. A family reunion, it seemed. Each visitor seemed to have come straight out of a 1970s mobster movie. And they heard the yelp as Agent 47 stabbed the drug lord in the lower back with his lucky buck knife.

And there he was. Struggling to run away from the secluded house. Running through the forests to try to get away from the many dangerous men that were following him. He tripped again.

He began to hear voices. He knew he could not outrun all of them. The agent quickly ducked into a ditch, and waited.

Through all the fear and confusion, 47 decided that this was a good time as any to relax and reflect. He needed a plan. Fast.

He opened his large, leather jacket. Inside were guns of every type, including his favorite, the Silverballer pistol. He wished he wasn't so tall, so that he would be able to fit better in this ditch. He noticed his well sculpted muscles, particularly his biceps. Years of combat training and working out resulted in his muscular build.

Mr. 47 laid there for what felt like hours, but he figured were only minutes. He could hear the yells of the mob getting louder.

He tried to think. He needed a plan, and quick. But his mind was not cooperating. He was near exhaustion, and almost frozen with fear.

The voices were very close now. Almost right on top of him. They had to be only a few feet away from him now. He then realized that they had followed his tracks. They would be on him in seconds now. In desperation, and without a plan, 47 quickly stood up, drew his lucky pistol, took quick aim, and shot.

The shot proved deadly. The mob was a bit closer than 47 had originally thought, only 15 feet away or so. However, there were quite a bit less than he imagined, only 4 men (3 men now…)

They attacked quickly. He shot again, but this time he was not so lucky. It was much too dark to have good aim at the darkly dressed mobsters.

Surprisingly fast, there were two men on top of 47. They were clawing and biting, like angry rabid dogs. 47 quickly threw them off of him and withdrew his knife, as did all 3 mobsters. With visibility all but naught, he knew this would have to be a hand fight.

The same two mobsters attacked again with such tenacity that it took 47 by surprise. 47 was promptly and firmly stabbed in the left shoulder. He felt the sharp, fiery pain instantly. He nearly screamed, but he kept his composure, and unleashed a flurry of punches and stabs with his good arm. He landed several good hits, and he knew that he killed one more. Two to go.

The second mobster attacked once more, but with much less assurance. 47 pushed him back, and roundhouse kicked him in the chest. The blow sent the man stumbling backwards, exposing him in some moonlight that had made it to the forest floor.

47 promptly drew his gun, now that he could get his aim. The aim proved deadly.

Silence. 47 looked around. Hadn't there been one more? Or had his eyes played tricks on him in the dark forest? No, that couldn't be. He was sure there were four men, and he had only killed three. 47 frantically scanned the ground, and even up in the trees. He found nothing.

He had to make sure. What if this escaped mobster had seen his face? There could be nothing worse than having a bounty on your head in a large mobster/drug-lord family.

47 began running. Again. Always running. All the way back to the drug house, to catch the witness.


	3. Trust

"Forgive me, Father. I have sinned."

47 waited for a reply. It hadn't been long since the last time he'd been in the Catholic church. The priest turned to face 47, and looked at the assassin intently.

"Son, you haven't a need to be here. You are a genetically engineered clone. You have no soul. You cannot be saved."

47 had heard this before. Every time he came to talk to his best friend, the high priest. Still, he could not help the feeling that he wasn't alone in the world, that there was inevitably a higher power, and that there was some chance he could make it in an afterlife.

"I killed 3 men last night, Seth." 47 felt more comfortable using the priest's first name. 47 looked deeply saddened and ashamed, as he usually did when he confessed.

The priest had always been able to sympathize with 47. Although mentoring the hitman was against his teachings and ethics, he had always been intrigued with 47's situations.

"This was at the drug bust in New York, right? I thought that was just a one man hit. It sounded routine to me…what went wrong?"

"Others came to visit. Like they knew it was coming, Seth. I could barely get him alone, and when I got the hit, they were on me so fast."

"You said that you killed 3 men. Were they the only ones that saw your face?"

"No. One man got away. I hunted at night, so it was much too dark to look around for too long. I couldn't find the survivor. I can't be sure if he saw my face or not."

The priest got suddenly nervous. "That could be some very bad news. The last thing you want is to have a bounty on your head in a mobster family."

47 frowned. He had already figured that part out. "The timing that night was completely wrong. They knew I was coming."

"How can that be?" The priest was shocked. "The agency is usually so good at timing the hits right. They had to know people were coming that night. What do you think the problem was?"

"Diana." 47 grimaced. Diana was the woman that he loved, but it could never work. She was human, and humans did not love clones. Diana worked for the agency, and briefed 47 before all his missions. "I suspect that the agency has undergone some…changes that I was not made aware of."

Seth stared in disbelief, understanding exactly what 47 was suspecting. "Don't jump to conclusions now, son. I doubt that an assassin agency has put up a bounty on their best hitman."

47 looked down, pondering the situation. "You can't trust everybody, Seth."

"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. You may be right, son, but keep an open mind. Trust the agency until they give you reason not to."

47 smiled for the first time that day. He checked his watch, and stood up. "I'll be back tomorrow." He said, "I've got some business to do."

As 47 swiftly left, Seth examined 47's clothing. That was the most weapons he had ever seen in a church…


	4. Decisions

No where to run. How could this be happening? He knew he had calculated everything right, but something went completely wrong. As he hid in a vacant closet, he heard the sound of twenty, maybe thirty armed men running, searching, trying to find him.

A routine hit. It was perfectly calculated, with little room for variables. How could it have gone so wrong? Agent 47 felt the puncture of the single gun shot wound in his left shoulder. 47 waited. For death; for capture; for the unknown.

How could it have gone so terribly wrong? He ran the events over in his mind…

47 was driving. And driving fast. He loved his company car more than any other thing in the world, not just because it was a 2009 Passat, but because it was the one thing that connected him with the woman he loved.

Diana.

Technically, 47 had never really met Diana before. At least not in person. But Diana was the only woman who had ever treated 47 with any kindness, and for that 47 was grateful.

47 was created for one reason, and that is to kill. And so the car is just a weapon, only used when necessary for 47. The car allowed him to speak to Diana through a 2 way radio. Diana briefed 47 on all of his missions. He always enjoyed hearing her voice, and the sound of her bidding him luck when she was through with all the details.

This time, her instructions were quick and simple, and although 47 didn't like the instructions, it was his duty to complete the mission.

Yes, 47 loved his car. That's why he had great displeasure in driving into the Drug Lord's front-left bedroom window at 63 miles per hour at 11:47:51 p.m. The man was killed instantly.

Disgusted with the loss of his favorite car, 47 found strength in the fact that he would be compensated with a new car in the near future. 47 double checked under his car, and sure enough, there was the anonymous bad guy, underneath his left rear tire. He noticed that he may have also accidentally killed a hooker. Oh well…

The familiar sounds of police car sirens rang, as inevitably one of the nearby neighbors had heard the crash.

"Around 20 seconds" he said to himself. He had plenty of time to escape.

Suddenly, a sharp pain snagged his shoulder. "What the-!" he yelped, and turned to face what looked like dozens of crazed, angry, men, rushing through the new opening of the house. All of them had weapons.

Within a moment, 47 reached to whip his silverback guns out. However, his left arm did not move. It hung uselessly to his side.

This moment of hesitation was all the mobsters needed to rush on top of 47, and if they weren't all highly intoxicated from their heroin use, they may have well killed him. 47 used the strength of his right arm to grab his silverback and shoot sporadically into the mass of bad guys. Frantically, he backed away and escaped into the untarnished remains of the Drug Lord's giant house, with dozens of blood thirsty men at his heels.

He quickly escaped into a small closet to retrace his steps and come up with a plan.

***

She had worked at the Agency for a long time, but had never experienced anything like this. Diana was a trusting person. She always had been. But weird things started happening the last couple of days.

The computers had calculated an unusually high probability of there being a mobster meeting in that house that night. In those highly dangerous situations, someone more expendable was usually called-in the form of an anonymous tip to the local police station. However, sending a single agent to such dangerous territory meant certain death, and Diana knew it. However, she had to give the orders, or the agency director could easily dispose of her.

Diana loved 47, though she knew it could never work. Women aren't supposed love clones. She needed to help 47.

She left her post, fully aware that while she turned her back to her desk, she was also about to turn her back on the Agency-which meant certain death in itself.


	5. Hopeless

He had killed several of them. He used up all the bullets, bombs, brains and brawn he had. They had broken into his hiding spot, and were currently carrying him across the hallways of the giant mobster house.

Although much of his strength had left him, he still had the will to fight, and that's exactly what he did. The mob's attempts at controlling and moving 47 were difficult. 47 was a trained fighter, and even with his weapons gone, his struggles carried on.

47 finally managed to free his right arm from the grips of a large mobster, and as soon as he did, he quickly reached and snagged a nearby picture that was hanging on the wall. Before any of his enemies could blink, he smacked the mobster holding his left arm with the edge of the picture frame. The man fell, instantly dead.

However, with no feeling in his injured left arm, this move proved to be unhelpful. Stabbing and thrashing and kicking and hitting, 47 killed another ten men. However, there were at least 15 others that flanked him. 47 was again shot, this time in the foot. He realized that the mob was not trying to kill him, just transport him. The pain in his foot shocked him. He fell down, only for a second, but in that second they were on top of him again, and on there way down the hallway again.

They arrived at a room. 47 still struggled to get free of the mob's grips, but it was no use. In the middle of the room was a small table, onto which he was promptly strapped. Still struggling, the leather straps that bound his arms, legs, torso, and neck were too strong, and 47 felt just too weak. The pain in his shoulder had not yet subsided, as his cries and yelps of agony did not help heal the now useless limb.

He felt needles injecting him with a substance unknown to him. His mind began to fade, and 47 began to quickly fade away. In his last moments of consciousness, some conclusions came to his mind. 1: The Agency had definitely put a hit on their own hitman. 2: The mob must have something to do with The Agency's corruption. And 3: He was about to die.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, all hell broke loose. BOOM! A flash of light, and all went silent. 47 laid in shock. Unable to move or feel, he was unsure weather he was dead or alive. He began to regain consciousness. There was definitely some kind of explosion, as nearly 15 men laid dead on the floor, and the room was quickly catching fire. Was this really happening?

He was being unstrapped. Startled and relieved, he looked up to see who was his savior. What he saw was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on.

"Diana." He whispered. Even though he had never seen her, he knew it was her. She looked exactly like he imagined. He promptly passed out, as the serum that had been injected in him hit his blood stream.


	6. Hope

Two men sit in a dark room. The first is a dark man sitting at his desk. Untrusting, he has his chair turned away from his visitor. This visitor, a slight, disgusting man, has a tired face. His voice is high and shrill. He looks ashamed as the dark man scolds him…

"He's alive?!"

"Yes sir. It was Diana, chief. She came in and took off with 47 in hand."

"Dang it man, my eyes haven't turned gray in five days." The nervous man tensed when the dark figure mentioned this. The figure continued angrily. "You couldn't have done anything?"

"No sir." Said the man, growing even more nervous. "I'm no good with fighting. I was there to observe. I just escape with the necessary information, in case anything goes wrong…uhhh…which it did."

"Obviously." The annoyed, dark figure muttered.

"Why do you think they call me the Escape Artist? Like when I escaped from 47 in the forest. I'm always able to relay you useful information."

"Yes, I've heard. And this talent of yours is the only reason I keep you around. Not to worry though. 47 will be dead soon."

"Who was your hire? Was it the mob again?"

"No. I hired a specialist from my cabinet. They call him The Doctor."

"Oh, the clone? Ya, he's real dangerous. Scares me half to death, but I hear he's a great hitman."

"Maybe the best hitman. Right up there with 47. I need you to call The Doctor tonight. Tell him to hunt and kill the girl, but bring me 47. Alive. Then tell Pistol that I'll give him 47, new and improved, within the week."

"Yes sir."

***.

"I brought the necessary tools to extract the serum." Diana had been pinching and prodding at 47 for the past 15 minutes. He hadn't said a word since he woke up.

The bed they were sitting on was lumpy. Uncomfortable. Still, the room had a home-like feel, the colors were very warm and inviting. Comfortable. 47 was not sure where they were, or even how they got there.

"This might…will…sting. A lot." Diana dug a thick, strange looking tool deep into 47's skin. Even with 47's high pain tolerance, he struggled not to scream. Diana pulled a lever back on the tool, and 47 physically felt the pain drained out of him. Suddenly, the tool made a clicking noise. 47 felt a shock move throughout his body, and he fell into unconsciousness once again.

He woke up just seconds later. All pain was gone. He inspected his shoulder, which now was in a sling. The bullet had been removed and the wound sewn up. That had been a nasty injury. It had nearly taken his entire arm off. While 47 thought about what kind of bullet could do that kind of damage, he remembered the bullet wound in his foot. He examined it, and found that it had been stitched up too.

He looked up to see Diana stitching herself up. Her white shirt was also covered in blood, of both hers and 47's.

"Diana." 47 was still shocked that it was really her. That she really saved him from capture, even death. She cared about him, and was now sitting right by him, in the flesh.

She looked at him and gave a half grin. "Just removing some shrapnel. That stuff is kind of tough to take out."

"What happened?" 47 began to massage his temples. He didn't remember anything since she saved him from the mobsters at the mansion.

I came to help you out. I figured you were in trouble. When I got to the mansion, I saw your car in the house, and I got in from there. Some police cars were there, but some mobsters already got to them."

Diana started to look sad. "They killed them all. At least eight cops. Dead. Mobsters don't usually go off like that." Diana looked up at 47. "Something bad is going on at The Agency."

"I figured that part out." 47 was still massaging his temples.

"Anyways," Diana continued. "I brought a grenade, you know, just in case. And I followed the carnage," She paused, as 47 remembered all the mobsters he killed. He gave her an apologetic smile. "And I found you in that room with all those mobsters, and they were injecting you with the control serum. So I threw the grenade and ducked behind the door, but I guess I didn't duck fast enough." She pulled another chunk of metal out of her right side with a pair of tweezers. "There was plenty of shrapnel in your body too. Luckily I'm a master at getting that stuff out. You get some practice at stuff like that when you're a trained war medical professional like me.

47 looked around the room. He had many questions, but he started with the first one he thought of. "What is control serum?"

"Control serum is what you inject into clones when their mindset needs to be…changed." Diana answered. "It knocks you out cold, and then your mind can be reprogrammed to do or think whatever someone wants you to. In this case, I'm guessing it was the mob."

47 pondered for a while. "What would the mob want with me? How would they even know about me?"

"Beats me." Diana answered with a half a grin. 47 thought for a while. He stared at Diana. He was amazed by her beauty. He thought that she was very efficient. She had a lot of brains, and he didn't think her looks were too bad either. Her hair was shoulder length, with red and black streaks. She was thin, but not completely. She was also pretty tall. Like him. He liked that.

Ever more questions, he asked another one. One that he was surprised he didn't ask sooner. "Where are we?"

"My sister let us use her apartment for the next few weeks. I didn't tell her anything, she just thinks that you're my new boyfriend and we need a place to stay." She smiled again, as she pulled another piece of metal out of her side. "5th floor. We're perfectly safe up here."

47 only wished that she was right. But he knew that she wasn't.


	7. Blackjack

James F. Shrader had worked at the same casino and dealt blackjack for a long time. The casino had always been a popular place. Large amounts of people filtered in and out every day.

Mr. Shrader didn't much enjoy working in a casino, being a man of principal and moral. But with mouths to feed at home, the well paying job just had to do. One aspect that he did enjoy, however, was meeting new, interesting, sometimes mysterious people.

Mr. Shrader noticed this strange man as soon as he entered the casino. Chills ran up his spine as he watched the darkly dressed man saunter over straight to his table. The dark man sat down at the stool in front of Mr. Shrader. Completely silent, he sat and waited for Mr. Shrader to deal. While they played, the dark man continued not to say a word.

Mr. Shrader had played with some strange characters in his day, but he had never played with anyone quite like this.

As he dealt the cards, he thought it was really quite strange that the mysterious man's eyes were black. Not black like a 'Hey man, your eye's are really dark,' kind of black. But _really_ black. Black like midnight- complete, cold, dead. Black.

Mr. Shrader did not like to judge people purely on their appearances, but there was just something about this man that made him uncomfortable. He still had spoken no words. The dark man simply threw his chips around the table and played. In Mr. Shrader's experiences, he figured that the best way to deal with someone like this was to make polite conversation.

"So, what du' they call ya?"

An awkward pause followed, as the dark-eyed man sat silent. He lightly pounded his fist on the table, signaling the need for another card. Mr. Shrader obliged.

"Some people call me The Doctor." The man said in a deep, hollow voice.

"Ah! You've got your very own gambling alias! You must be a real shark, huh?" Mr. Shrader gave The Doctor a quick nudge. The Doctor remained silent, annoyed.

"I'm looking for somebody, maybe you know her."

"A lot of people come to this casino, man." Mr. Shrader tried to say as politely as he could.

"This one is different. She comes here a lot. Her name is Elizabeth."

"Oh, Liz! Ya, I know her. She's a regular around here, when she's not working, which is just too rare these days…"

The Doctor gave a sigh of impatience, as the blackjack dealer continued:

"I'm not sure where she is, but I can sure call her for you if you'd like."

The Doctor forced a fake smile. "Would you? That'd be great."

As Mr. Shrader pulled out his cell phone, they flipped over their cards, revealing the winner. The Doctor casually reeled in his winning chips.

"Hey, Liz, It's James. There is someone here at the casino that says he wants to talk to ya, is that alright?"

Mr. Shrader listened for a bit, and then handed the phone to The Doctor.

"Hello?" The Doctor said.

Mr. Shrader nearly jumped as The Doctor's voice changed completely. A bright, friendly ring replaced the cold, deep voice Mr. Shrader had heard from him just a minute ago.

"Hello! My name is Wilson. You are Diana's sister, right?"

A pause

"Oh, excellent! Well I was just wondering where she might be at a time like this. I've been trying to find her for some time now. I've been wanting to get together with her to discuss…uh huh…o right right…"

Mr. Shrader didn't often listen in on other people's conversations, but he was a very curious man.

"All right, so you think they're going to visit the Catholic Church some time today? Ok, thank you. I'll be sure to let Diana know you helped me out. Uh huh. Thank you so much!"

The doctor hung up the phone. His voice instantly changed back to deep and painful. "Stupid girl…" he muttered.

The Doctor began to gather his chips.

"You're leaving already? Where you headed?" Wondered Mr. Shrader.

"I'm off to kill Diana and her boyfriend." The Doctor stated without a pause.

"Really?" Mr. Shrader half said, half giggled. He thought The Doctor was just making some kind of weird, sick joke.

"Really." The Doctor replied, as serious and scary as Mr. Shrader had ever seen anyone.

Mr. Shrader was still confused and skeptical. His curiosity continued to push on. "_Why_ are you telling me this?"

A short pause followed, as The Doctor, still sitting on the stool, picked up one of the cards. "Do you mind if I keep this?" The Doctor asked, as he raised up the Jack of Spades-The black jack.

"What?" Mr. Shrader started to get a little freaked out.

With a wink and a dark, slight smile, the doctor leaned real close, nearly face to face with Mr. Shrader. "Don't scream," he whispered, barely audible.

As The Doctor stood up and made his way out of the casino, no one noticed the blackjack dealer laying face down, dead, on the table. His throat cut.


	8. Silence

Silence.

Silence overtook them as they exited the busy streets of the city, and entered the dead quiet halls of the Catholic Church. It was evident that 47 was quite familiar with this church, as he briskly and confidently navigated his way through with Diana in tow.

47 was used to the church being tranquil, but there had always been other people there. 47 didn't think much of it, and continued through the dusty old church toward the well-known confessional. There sat an old priest, looking much more haggard than usual.

"Hello, Seth." 47 whispered as he sat down with Diane. "I told you I'd be back here by tomorrow, but I was a little tied up…"

The priest gave 47 a half smile. "I'm happy to see you, son. But I don't think you should be here right now."

"I know, you've told me plenty of times," 47 interrupted, "I don't need to be here because I'm not going to heaven anyways. But I have some things I should get off my chest, and I need some advice."

The priest stared quietly at him, so 47 continued. "Uhh, this is Diana. She's been helping me the past day or two. You see, there is something going on in the Agency, but Diana isn't in on it! They are trying to kill me, Seth. Remember that hit I was given a couple days ago? It was supposed to be just another standard one-hit, but it was a trap…"

47 was used to the priest being much more interested in his stories and perilous journeys, but he just continued to stare on, not seeming to listen at all.

"…Well anyways," 47 continued, "I'll just get on to the confession. I stabbed a man in the heart; I shot a man in the back of the head; I killed a half dozen men with a picture frame; I ran over a guy with my car; I stuffed a grenade in a man's throat; I rammed my elbow into a guy's esophagus; Oh, ya, and there was this time when I was knee deep in this one guy's… Hey, are you listening to me, Seth?"

During 47's ramblings, the priest had been whispering to Diana. 47 listened in on their conversation.

"You don't understand, you need to leave _now_." The priest looked very worried. It was then that 47's superior instincts kicked in; something was wrong.

"Seth, what's going on?"

At that moment, 47 felt cold. As he watched his best friend fall dead on the floor, any friendly or safe atmosphere he felt completely shifted into hostile and dangerous.

Pistol smoke filled the air. 47's senses slowed as he stared in disbelief at the bullet hole that had ripped through the priest's back. Numbness and confusion overcame him, and the room began to spin, all within a second or two. 47 looked up from the body as Diane screamed, and 47 saw a dangerous looking dark figure…the _really dark_ figure.

47 tried to gather himself, and focused on the man standing in front of him, inside the confessional. "The Doctor…" he whispered. The Doctor smiled, aimed his gun, and pulled the trigger.

47 was immediately on the ground, withering in pain. He had been shot in the head. He figured he'd be dead within seconds. He heard another shot, and listened as another body dropped to the floor. Diana.

Once again, the church was silent. For a few milliseconds, there was no sound at all. It wasn't until 47 promptly stood up and withdrew his silverballers that there was any sound at all.

47 let loose. Rage had 47's index fingers working in rapid succession. Bullet after bullet shot past The Doctor, and many hit him. The Doctor quickly dove away out of sight.

47 yelled in primal anger. He swiftly dropped his pistols, grabbed a small grenade, and threw it in The Doctor's general area.

47 stood still, waiting to inspect if the grenade had been lethal. Again there was silence. Always silence.

Suddenly, 47 felt an intense pain in his left shoulder. As he quickly turned around, he saw The Doctor, with a 9 inch meat cleaver that he must have got from the church kitchen. It was soaked in blood. 47's blood.

Again, 47 nearly fainted with the pain. The knife took a large chunk out of his shoulder. The Doctor ran up on 47 with great speed and tenacity. The fight took to the ground, with 47 handicapped an arm.

47, being physically stronger of a clone than The Doctor, was able to hold him back with just one arm. However, The Doctor was much quicker than 47, and used his speed to quickly withdraw a weapon from within 47's own jacket. 47 was unable to see what The Doctor grabbed from his coat, but 47 quickly wrangled The Doctor's meat cleaver, rolled away and quickly stood up.

Unfortunately, a meat cleaver is not a good match against what the Doctor had achieved; a .22 caliber pistol. However, even the power of a high quality gun was no match for 47's brians.

With no hesitation, 47 quickly threw the cleaver. A clean cut halfway up The Doctor's forearm completely chopped off his hand, along with the gun. 47's luck, however, lasted less than a second. As the gun hit the ground, it went off, straight into 47's thigh.

Both men screamed in agony and fell to the ground.

Aware of The Doctor's quickness, 47 knew he didn't have much time. With nothing but a few knives left in his weapons jacket, 47 desperately began crawling to the gun, which was still attached to The Doctor's dismembered hand.

As 47 crawled, he noticed that The Doctor had the same idea. Once again, The Doctor's quickness proved a high advantage over 47, as the dark figure crawled toward the gun at amazing speed. With all his strength, 47 lunged on top of The Doctor, in a ground fight once more, but this time both had an unusable arm.

After several seconds of ruthless punching and clawing, 47 seemed to be winning. With one final punch to the temple, The Doctor laid still on the floor, a bloody pulp.

For just a second, 47 sat there in dismay. Two clones, made from the same mold, were now just senselessly killing each other. He looked at all the wounds and bruises they had inflicted on each other in just the past minute. He was saddened in the fact that he had allowed himself to give in to such rage, and that The Doctor had given into such evil.

47 slowly got off from on top of the lifeless heap. With no energy or strength left, 47 little by little made his way to the gun. He had to make sure The Doctor was dead so he couldn't hurt anyone anymore.

Just then, 47 heard a grumble of fury, and felt a deep pain in his calf. Startled, 47 looked over and saw a now conscious Doctor biting chunks out of 47's calf. 47 yelped, and began punching again.

47 was too weak now to fight for long. He was a well trained clone with superior stamina, but this was just too much. He gave in to exhaustion, and passed out.

47 woke up just seconds later, but to a dark figure standing over him with a gun aimed at his head.

"Why are you doing this?" 47 asked The Doctor.

The dark figure gave a little smile, and quietly replied, "Pistol Smoke…" At that point, The Doctor lifted his gun, and took aim at the hopeless, and confused, 47.

47, always calm and collected, gave a shriek. "O, God!"

In that same second, the sun immediately shone through a stain glass window. As the picture of Jesus shone brightly on the dark figure, The Doctor was temporarily blinded. The Doctor was a lover of darkness, and as the beam of light hit him, he gave a sharp yelp and stumbled backwards.

Suddenly, 47 heard a gun shot go off, and The Doctor fell backwards once more. The Doctor quickly got up, in disbelief, and swiftly limped out of the church.

Also in disbelief, 47 looked up at his savior. "Seth?"

"Who says a priest can't use guns?" The priest was a bloody mess that could barely stand, but he smirked to himself as he held a silverballer pistol.


End file.
